


What they made

by Kasan_Soulblade



Category: Super Mario RPG: Legend of the Seven Stars
Genre: Family related, Gen, bowser family centric, bowsers the father to the koopalings, character exercises, exploring koopa/koopaling psychology, kamek is the grandpa to the lot, notes for upcoming stories
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-17
Updated: 2015-09-17
Packaged: 2018-04-21 05:17:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4816460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kasan_Soulblade/pseuds/Kasan_Soulblade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They made music sometimes, and chaos at others, and they were spoiled so rotten badness was a thing that went beyond expected.</p><p>It was demanded.</p><p>And there were kidnappings, and plumbers, and other things, because that was crazy, and crazy was what they did.  What they were.</p><p>Still it worked out, for one and all.  And sometimes, in that quiet time, before crazy was a thing, and badness went down, there was music.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What they made

No facts were gentled (they weren’t Toadies, not even the fungi inspired Goombas) rather the lurid was told first and in glowing detail. There was gore to this, so much so that he’d been disappointed when the violin had been offered had such tame strings. When he’d asked why, or rather why not (why not all red and drippy, like the ketchup soaked through noodles King-Dad had called spaghetti, save cat gooped and less stinky?) he’d been offered a bow and had more disappointment because it wasn’t a _bow_. You couldn’t shoot anything with it, it was just a stick with hairs and junk held really tight along one side long ways about.

He’d been ready to trash the thing (it’s hollowness begged to be busted open, the wood was softer then stone and anything that fragile groveled to be splintered and the splinters kicked about for unwary feet to trod over because why not and people in pain were funny, and…)

And Kamek perhaps expecting this took the item away with something like a smile curling his scaled beak.

“You’re the King’s son.”

To that obvious the King’s son blinked wide blue eyes, and though he’d forever deny it his hatchling tooth made him lisp. “S’what of it beaky?”

“Kings are always right, therefore you must do everything right and never be wrong.” To the confusion that marred that gaze looking up the smile spread so it bared a few crooked fangs. “Like this.”

The robed magikoopa tucked the thing under his lower beak, tipping his head just so so the hook of the upper wouldn’t cut the stings, one set of spindly fingers held it up and away yet braced, the other wielded slender stick and scraped it against strings that were a disappointing no-color of thinness.

And the scrape, no stroke, that followed made the thing sing. Not a King-Dad yowl-swear word-song because the shower was spitting icicles instead of steamy water, or the song-squeals of pain of someone stumbling upon this or that trap he’d made (or been made for him, because King Dad had to show him how the first few times) this sound was different. This was sweeter, like and unlike those low melodies his Koopa Mama had hummed over his egg.

And perhaps being first laid, hearing the hums of half formed song longest then all the others, maybe it had sunk into his skull. Because the sound was bliss, and warmth, a compilation of those “fuzzy“ feeling that his scales kept locked out.

The princeling hummed, an off tune echo of a song so slow and aching that he could follow without trying. Eyes slid shut, so warm, he nearly drowsed, only faintly aware of the rattle in the back of his throat as he strived to keep the hum down.

When the last noise drizzled off and it was just him and his low echo rattling about his fangs he snapped his eyes open. Realizing then, in that awful moment he’d been tricked.

Kamek tricked him! Going slower and softer until he’d been found out doing… well he didn’t know what, but it wasn’t mean or evil, and therefore bad.

When King-Dad didn’t pop out of some stony corner, or rooms edge that he wasn’t looking at right now, the princeling stopped shaking his head here and there all wildling like. Eyes smarting, because Koopa’s didn’t cry, ever, the firstborn glowered at his minder.

Who wasn’t minding him at all. Simply setting wood and stick to nest on the blue fabric that made Kamek’s lap a lap and not a collection of sharp knees and sharper scales.

Only when the smarting stopped, only when the sniffles stilled did Kamek look up from the… the thing. The thing that had a bow that didn’t hoot, the thing that was wood and soft but had broken something in him.

He reached…

And was given a napkin filched from some meal or other. It was near scale stroked wrong ways rough, (servants stuff) but he dabbed instead of wiped and therefore wasn’t red snouted once the snot was all off.

Satisfied that “his face was in order” (a clawed hand tipped his chin up, and glasses drew close, near snort mess them up close, but experience had taught Kamek the range so temptation wasn’t realized until Kamek had let go) Kamek took and torched the wet thing without a thought. Not even looking at it while it burned out on the floor touch close for either of them. But then Koopas and fire had an odd relationship, neither burning the other or needing the other much.

Most koopas liked the colors fire brought, the smell of smoke and things smoking, the taste of cooked meat seasoned spicy hot, but could do without when needed. So when Kamek spoke of fire, never looking at it, tone of warning, the princeling listened.

“Wood is fragile, not like stone, you can never bring this near lava, or close to flame, it burns brightest here,” Bow was tipped, “and here,” cat thing strings were touched, making a different tone under claw then the arrowless thing that’d touched it before. “But brightest or not, a burn is a burn and even a scratch can ruin the tone.”

Still hands thrust forward, a wordless _give me, now_ from before.

“Gently.”

Thus warned again, the violin was placed in trembling claws, a few pokes and prods from spindly digits got his hands holding it right, a quick squeeze before letting go steadied the princeling’s grasp.

“And no fire.”

“Gently, no fire.” Ludwig breathed, wondering how the thing had gotten so heavy, so complicated, so fast. There were little bits, tiny bits, they could break with a tap.

Never knowing right then that those thoughts he had had been his father’s words one hatching past, almost six years ago, the princeling held what was to be his sixth birthday gift from the old magikoopa and tried not to shake.

“Very good, young princeling. You’re doing fine.” Slender caw lightly cuffed his blue mane, because Koopas don’t do hugs too.

And even though good was bad because bad was good Kamek smiled, and the young Ludwig smiled right back. One knowing why, the other unlikely never to know and just echoing something beyond his experience.

“Now, would you like to know how it’s made? The bits and pieces, once we know that… well plans can be made. Perhaps music?”

The bow, tipped, an invitation and explanation all at once.

That invitation was taken, and taken up gladly, thus one taught and the other learned and come his sixth birthday, well he wasn’t surprised by the odd box, and Ludwig knew all the pieces and parts and surprised one and all because instead of the scraped hiss of a beginner he was able to play and play well.

And if his song was slow… and perhaps a bit simple, going loud to soft to stop… Well was just learning after all.


End file.
